Burials
by Jack of All Suits
Summary: How does one dispose of the body of Lord Voldemort? With respect or with vengeance? The decision rests on Harry, as the final step to ridding himself of Tom Riddle.


**Just a blurb about our old buddy Voldemort and how his body was disposed of.**

**DISCLAIMER: HP is not mine. Otherwise, I'd be rich.**

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Ollivander had once said, when the threat of his return was distant and unexpected, that Voldemort had done great things in his time. Terrible, yes, but great. Perhaps it was a testament to his own change in thinking that Harry could see it now clearly, while the world began to pick up where it had left off. The dead had been buried days ago, and now there was only one body left to contend with. Untouched, in a small room within Hogwarts, the corpse of Tom Riddle rested.

He entered the chamber as part of a group. Kingsley Shacklebolt led the procession, acting still as the temporary Minister of Magic. They had each approached him throughout the day to ask him not to attend; that it was perfectly all right for him to let others deal with the last step of Lord Voldemort's departure. That he had done his part. Yet he had insisted, and he felt no regret for his decision, even on entering the room with its heavy atmosphere of dread, death, and the leftover terror from years of tyranny. Ron and Hermione lingered beside him, and he could feel rather than see them stop, letting the group of bodies hide the cadaver from view.

Harry continued, however, stepping lightly in accordance to the rest of the group. It was almost funny, really. Did they think if they walked too heavily that Voldemort would wake up and continue from where he had been stopped? He didn't feel fear anymore, only some strange curiosity as a tense silence filled the room.

The body of Tom Riddle had been placed under charms to preserve it until they could decide what to do with it. The Wizarding World still cried for blood and vengeance, but staring down at the serpentine face, Harry felt that what they wanted to strike back on had long left the world, leaving a shell behind.

His scar no longer burned at the sight, and without the distraction he could gaze down upon Voldemort with an eye for detail. He found it funny, again, that he had hated this… man so completely, yet he had only the most basic idea of his appearance. Now he could see everything in the light of a beautiful day, and it felt as though the last lingering traces of the nightmare had been washed away.

He had been tall – Harry had always known that, but now he could see that Riddle (this body was becoming less and less that of Voldemort for every minute he stood staring) had not been inhuman in his height. Above average, yes. Taller than most, and made larger still by his talent for the dramatic. Harry wagered him to be over six foot, but shorter than six-and-a-half. A trace of his fear of the unknown was dashed.

His limbs were thin, and Harry wondered what he ate. If he ate. Had he found it painful to be so normal as to require food? He could imagine Riddle might have forgone things so trivial until he _had_ to eat, or die by natural and humiliating causes. Harry would ask Hermione later if he might have used a charm to keep his weight off his legs, the bony shapes of which stood out through the feathery, light robes. He doubted they could support much at all without reinforcement.

Empty, outstretched, his fingers looked abnormal and long – distantly Harry remembered that Riddle's wand had always seemed rather small despite being over a foot. The answer to the illusion was given in his hands, pristine and white. They looked very elegant now; the long and slender fingers didn't seem out of place. Piano fingers was what he had heard long digits called before. Harry didn't think Tom Riddle had ever played a piano.

His attention was brought to the black robes as they swayed along the floor with every minute gust of air. He knew that, had the body been upright, the material would flow and twist to create an illusion of movement that was no longer possible. Vaguely, he thought they must have been very cold to wear during the cold months. Would Riddle have seen _that_ as a human weakness? Did he cast charms to keep himself warm, or did he feign ignorance to the temperature?

Harry had delayed staring at the face of his enemy for as long as possible, but now he swallowed his hesitation and ran his eyes up the length of the prone corpse. Ribs were visible through the thin robes; his collarbone was pronounced and seemed almost sickly in death. Then his gaze hit the chin and that was where his attention was centered.

The face of Tom Riddle was difficult to distinguish through the vile serpent-like additions. Through memory, Harry thought he could see the vestiges of what had been a handsome, strong jaw line. When he tried to focus on it, however, it was lost again under the bone-white skin and his inspection continued to the flat nose, the nostrils of which were almost invisible now that they had ceased flaring to allow their master to breathe.

His eyes had remained wide, and Harry found something unnerving in the unseeing red irises. They had lost much of their snake-like appearance in death; the pupils were wide now that they no longer had to restrict light. Against the light of the day, the red shone clearly and Harry saw that they were not the color of blood as he had always felt; they were a shade much more vivid. After seeing them in the sun, he would no longer feel comfortable with Father Christmas and his fantastic red suit.

It was like looking at a shadow. In the light of day, Harry could not find it in himself to feel the least bit intimidated. Instead, he felt some repulsion and an inkling of pity for Riddle, whose body couldn't possibly suffer a worse fate than the torn fragment of his soul, wherever it was. He stared hard at the body, taking in its foreign details again, and crouched beside it.

"Harry? What…" Hermione and Ron had pushed forward at last, in time for Mr. Weasley to pose the question.

With more gentleness than he'd thought he was capable of, Harry slid the eyelids shut and stood, taking a moment to wipe his fingers in his pants on some instinct to rid himself of any lasting evil. He turned to the group with a sense of the authority he maintained in the matter. "We'll give him a burial." He said simply.

Shacklebolt shook his head in time with several in the room, and Ron spoke up, reflecting their opinions. "You're mad. Half the world's out for his blood and you want to _bury _him? Harry, look what he's done. To you. To everyone."

"It's what Dumbledore would want. It's what _I_ want."

"He would not give you the same respect." Shacklebolt's voice was low, but there was malice in it directed to the corpse. "He gave no one that respect."

Harry shook his head. "Then we would only be on his level if we burned him, or… whatever it is people are proposing. It's more important to do what's right, isn't it?"

Hermione began to nod, and he wasn't surprised. Her logic usually made things more complicated, but in this case he was grateful. "You're right, Harry. It will remind people to keep their heads in all of this. It's not as though anyone is celebrating his life – we're just giving him the sort of dignity we would want."

"You're _both_ mad." Ron muttered. "We bury him and then what? You can't think a tombstone reading 'here lies Lord Voldemort, master of all evil' won't make some people want to do something to it."

Again, Harry shook his head. "This isn't Lord Voldemort," The group looked at him incredulously. "Not anymore, at least. It's Tom Riddle. If we bury him in Little Hangleton privately, who's going to realize?"

It seemed reason was falling over them all, and voices cropped up, offering ideas for the burial as opposed to resistance. Shacklebolt remained focused on the body as the conversation traveled throughout the group. "You're sure?" He asked at last. "This is for you to decide. You were the one to kill him."

Harry gazed down at the malformed man, and contemplated it. Ollivanders words echoed across his mind again. _"After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great". _It seemed true in hindsight, and it felt as though to not give some small respect to one of the greatest wizards in the century – in history, even – would rest unpleasantly on his mind. "Yes," he said slowly, dragging out the word as if to test it on his tongue. "I'm sure."

They buried Tom Riddle quietly in Little Hangleton, in an inconsequential plot of the small graveyard that stirred little feeling in Harry during the bright morning. They had placed him in a mahogany casket that seemed terribly plain in comparison, and Harry had gone to great lengths to find Riddle's wand. They had located it near Dumbledore's tomb, and could only assume it had been discarded for the Elder Wand. It felt icy when Harry touched it, and they had not been sad to part with it, placing it in the coffin and closing it firmly.

The burial was a painfully silent affair, attended only by Harry, Ron, Hermione, and several people from the Ministry, headed by Kingsley Shacklebolt. Spells were cast to divert attention from their small party and the coffin was lowered without words. Harry watched as it was covered and several protective charms were engaged to alert the Ministry should anyone disturb the grave – a smart choice, as there was no guarantee that it would go unnoticed.

When it was only the three of them remaining, they stared at the headstone in what felt like shock. Ron had his arm around Hermione while Harry stood to the side in deep thought.

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

_31 December 1926 – 2 May 1998_

It was simple, but really, what else could be said? There were no compliments to be given, no hopes of passing on to a better life. Harry had tried, without result, to convince Riddle to feel remorse for what he had done. He had been spurned, and it was Riddle's soul which would linger on uselessly in fragmented pieces. He felt some sympathy again, and perhaps would have dwelled on it had Ron not spoken.

"Blimey, wouldn't have thought he was seventy-one."

After all that had happened, they had to laugh at the bland, mildly impressed tone. Harry turned away, Hermione slapped Ron's shoulder, and the heavy atmosphere dispersed. The grave before them became common, and the years of uncertainty seemed to pass away at last. He felt lighter, knowing that it was all done and over with.

"It looks so empty." Hermione said eventually, when their amusement had faded.

Ron snorted. "Well I dunno about you, but I'm not giving him any flowers."

She scoffed at him. "No, it's just… well, it's a bit sad isn't it? Now that it's over, I can't help but feel bad."

"What, would you rather there be a grand old war going on?"

"Don't be stupid. I mean for _him_. It's just a bit sad, like I said." She shrugged half-heartedly and wrapped her arms around herself.

Harry nodded. "He couldn't feel love. Dumbledore said it was the thing that really made us different. Now that it's over… I pity him – I pitied him before, but now I guess, without so much hate… it feels like everyone else should pity him, too." He turned away and Ron made a face of distaste.

"I dunno about you two, but I'll be pitying myself if I miss dinner because of him."

With another bout of laughter they left the graveyard. Besides some footprints on loose soil there was no indication that anyone had even been there as the wind whistled through Little Hangleton. The gate closed behind them and with a light heart, Harry left Tom Riddle behind him for good. He did not visit the grave again.


End file.
